Death Wish?



Charles Bronson in "Death Wish" (1974)



Are they not the cutest things ever??

It's now about ten months since I got sick. If you've been following my trials and tribulations through this blog since I started it in July, you'll know about the "bird connection". In case you're not familiar with this particular aspect of my journey, allow me to elaborate. There are those in the medical community who have hypothesized that my pneumonia was precipitated, either directly or indirectly, by all my feathered friends. At one point I had four birds in my studio apartment. And while there is a specific type of pneumonia caused by contact with bird poop (psittacosis), that particular strain was ruled out early in my treatment. Some of the doctors felt, however, that all the bird dander and dust and poop may have contributed to my illness. Then there are those in my family (who shall remain nameless) who are absolutely convinced that the birds were the culprits. How they've figured this out sans medical or research degree of any kind, I haven't the foggiest. But they remain convinced nonetheless. I for one have always been somewhat skeptical about it. Okay, so here's the thing: I live alone. Or as Babby would say, "alone like a dog." I never understood that particular Babbyism...pretty much all the dogs I know are either in the company of their person or another dog or two. But I digress. Living alone has its perks, such as not having to listen to a wife's kvetching*. Birds, on the other hand, especially talking birds, are the perfect companions. Aside from Oscar who was quite neurotic and was probably a serial killer in a previous life (but whom I loved dearly anyway), my flock was sweet and friendly and fun. Almost immediately after my discharge from from Silver Lake I started floating trial balloons about getting a new b-i-r-d. Chayie promptly bit my head off, and Blimie informed me that she would never, ever speak to me again...and she meant it. The thing is, they really don't understand where I'm coming from. Here are a few points to ponder, or as I like to refer to them, ponderable points: First, I truly don't believe that the birds made me sick. If in fact they were a contributing factor, I believe that at this stage of my recovery I am well enough to be able to discern if something is going seriously wrong, in which case any new bird in my possession would find himself pounding the proverbial pavement, searching out a new master.  Second, the bird that was the most suspect was Oscar.  He was big and dirty.  What I'm considering buying is a lovebird, which is tiny and much neater and cleaner.  Also (believe it or not), I have changed my evil ways, baby.  My apartment is spotless.  I have resolved to keep it neat and clean.  I have made it a point to put everything away where it belongs right after I'm done with it.  This is all quite remarkable for a lifelong slob like me.  I'm painfully aware of the tenuousness of my recovery and I have taken steps to surround myself with a much healthier environment.  I could just say, hey, this is my life and the heck with all of you, but I won't do that.  I respect you all and understand that your position springs from your concern for my well being.  But I disagree with you.  So let's agree to disagree and move on, okay?